He stared at me, then opened a drawer and removed a folder. After scanning the first page, he frowned.
“That cannot be correct.”
“What does the file say?”
He closed it too quickly.
“An administrative coding error.”
I stepped closer. “Show me.”
“Student financial records are not relevant.”
“They became relevant when you used them to intimidate us.”
He held the folder against the desk. His eyes shifted toward the computer screen, then toward the closed office door.
Emma tugged my sleeve.
“Dad, I want to go home.”
That decided it.
The financial discrepancy could wait. Her sense of safety could not.
“We will discuss the records later,” I told Halloway. “Do not contact Emma directly. Any communication goes through me.”
We stepped into the hallway.
Mrs. Gable was gone.
A receptionist sat behind the front desk, typing with both hands despite the fact that her computer screen displayed an empty document. Near the entrance, a gray-haired custodian stood beside a cleaning cart.
He watched Emma with quiet concern.
When our eyes met, he gave the smallest nod toward the far end of the corridor.
It was not greeting. It was direction.
Before I could respond, the front doors opened and two police officers entered. One was a young patrol officer whose nameplate read Diaz. The other was Sergeant Anne Mercer, whom I knew only through community safety meetings.
Halloway emerged behind us wearing an expression of solemn cooperation.
“Officers,” he said, “thank you for coming. This appears to be an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Sergeant Mercer looked at Emma and then at me.
